stellar explosions & flickering flames
by tunnelOFdawn
Summary: "I find it funny," Lance says with eyes that burn, a mouth that twists, "that even the Galra say, 'We are all made of stardust.' I find it even funnier that nobody has ever realized that we could just as easily take back our dust." Or, wherein, Lance isn't as human as he seems to be (but he isn't alone).
1. Chapter 1

"I find it funny," Lance says with eyes that burn, a mouth that twists, "that even the Galra say, 'We are all made of stardust.' I find it even funnier that nobody has ever realized that we could just as easily take back our dust."

* * *

Lance likes to say he was born in a corner of the universe untouched by all life. Most people surmise that Varadero Beach is just a desolate place—the sort of small town in the middle of nowhere populated by generations of the same families.

"A quiet sort of town?" they cluck sympathetically.

"Oh, absolutely, the quietest. As quiet as the void of space," Lance laughs with a lopsided mouth that is more grimace than smile. "So quiet," they almost hear him whisper.

* * *

Here's a secret nobody thinks Lance knows and outside of his parents and his older siblings, nobody else knows: he's adopted. Lance always knew, for all that his family never spoke of it. They thought he would never remember, on account of being so terribly young.

He washes up onto shore—springs fully formed from sea foam. A tiny, finely made doll sprawls across the sand. The barest of breaths lifts his chest minutely. He is bare of all clothes and dusted with sand.

He looks like a toddler, and so they think of him as a toddler.

(His parents ignore the fact that they heard the splash of water, the sizzle of water preceding him minutes before. They do an admirable job of forgetting the strangeness in the years after.)

* * *

Lance's pale blue eyes (liquid oxygen freezing you up, sending a shiver down your spine and leaving you off-kilter when he looks, looks at you) darken a few days after. They don't know why, but Lance's parents breathe a sigh of relief when those eyelids flutter and reveal a dark blue similar to Mr. McClain's color.

On that day the newly named Lance McClain says, "Hello." He slides into humanity like an ill-fitting coat he can only hope he'll grow into. His humanity is a thin veneer stretched over his nuclear core.

(The McClains find Lance's lack of confusion, lack of anything, really, quite disconcerting. But they attribute it to some unnamed trauma, the sort of trauma that leaves a young boy all alone, entirely bare as he washes ashore.)

* * *

Lance grows up a happy kid. (The strangeness of his beginning is forgotten.) He grows up normal. He laughs as he soars in swings. (He laughs when his parents chide him for pushing a boy who had teased him into the pavement. What do stars care if a flame is snuffed out?) He cries as he skins his knees in over eagerness. (He cries when his favorite grandmother abandons him in death. Why do stars even bother to care about flickering flames?)

* * *

"Mr. McClain, why are you interested in attending Galaxy Garrison?" A clean-cut man in a clean-cut uniform asks. He feels faceless and nameless, like a speck of dust only rendered noticeable in a beam of sunlight and still manages to look as utterly the same as the next speck of dust your eyes fixate upon.

"Space," Lance flashes a red-white smile, "is humanity's final frontier. Allow me to make a difference in humanity's… _endeavor_ to know, to learn, to reach beyond our limits…" Lance had spent hours prepping for this interview. He has a whole spiel about humanity, curiosity, space, knowledge, and all those buzzwords. (I just want to go home, he had whispered to himself with burning eyes. Even if he was too small, too much of a speck to truly occupy his home.)

* * *

When Lance meets Keith, for all that Keith doesn't meet Lance, he knows in an instant that there is something _different_ about him. A fundamental difference between Keith and everybody around them. Not different in the way Lance is different—burning, burning up on the inside. Different in the way that some of his molecules (his dust) were just so slightly off and achingly familiar.

Lance realizes, my brother (my sister, my sibling, my closest star; language can be such an imprecise mode of communication when there is no sense of _knowing_ ) helped make you. Perhaps I helped make you, like I've made much of life in this dusty universe with my brethren when our time came, but yes, my brother made you _more_.

Jealousy is not a foreign emotion to Lance. Ever since he slipped and fell into humanity, he's run the whole gamut of emotions. But this scorching jealousy that sears him inside out is new to him. He can't tell if he wants to be Keith or if he just _wants_ (this flash fire boy who shines crimson in what little sight, what little insight he has left in and into the universe).

* * *

No human could ever truly resemble Lance's star-brother but Hunk—Hunk comes _close_. He feels like a safe haven—the steadfast lighthouse illuminating away the festering shadows. There's an unfaltering kindness to Hunk. He's the sort who expresses his worry through overbearing fussing and tentative offers of food. Hunk just wants to make everything _right_ in the world and he works pasts his limitations with steady determination. He'll lift you up and hold you together as seams and cracks litter your façade. Hunk is the land before your feet that supports you.

If he was a color, he'd be a bright golden yellow lighting up your life. He's the gold of your supernova explosion.

(Lance later learns about _quintessence_. They say it's life itself and a self-generating power source, as if it's a substance entirely separate from them. You fools, Lance cannot help but laugh. How wrong they are. So very wrong.)

* * *

Finding the Blue Lion feels like recovering a remnant of his brethren, of his home. Lance _feels_ the Blue Lion in all of its entirety. It is more than just words, feelings, thoughts, mental communication. It is an intimate communion of two beings, two existences that is purely about energy. It is _knowing_ without learning, without communication. If they spoke in words, it'd be like this: "Little cousin, little comet. Voltron, Blue Lion. Blue. Water. Liquid. Hydrogen. Oxygen. Mine." And in turn: "Eldest, elder, star. Eternity. Human. Paladin. Lance." Disjointed but comprehensible.

Blue and Lance slot into each other like long gone missing puzzle pieces, a jigsaw completed. It's not the same as being with another star. Comets are not stars. They're lesser, but it is enough for Lance's diminished core to heat up in delight. And perhaps true communion with a star would be too much for Lance, who has gone through his supernova and has finally recoalesced into this lesser, so very lesser form.

We are parts of each other, Lance and Blue conclude. They share some of the same dust, so much so that Lance almost feels like he's come home.

* * *

Surprisingly enough, the Altean Princess's comment about his hideous ears offends Lance. But perhaps not surprisingly enough. Lance is no longer a star indifferent to all but his brethren. It chafes that this Altean would dare to malign the form he has settled in. Humanity is Lance's species. He contributed to their creation and now he is one, if only barely, of them. For all that being human is something odd, something wrong for him, it is not wrong for humans to _be_ humans. Their ears are written in their DNA—adenine, guanine, cytosine, thymine, all nucleotides made up of elements—his elements. You humans and your bodies are formed by our remnants and our explosions. You are _mine_.

* * *

There are days that Lance forgets that he ever was a star. There are days when his carefully constructed personality is not just a façade, but something that is bone-deep and distinct. Flirting with people is _fun_. There is something indescribably wonderful about using words to entice, to tease. He likes tilting his body towards another, showcasing his genuine interest. He likes it when they smile at him and lean in in turn. Flirting feels like extending himself into somebody else (a connection, a bond). It feels like leaving a part of yourself behind and assimilating them in turn. He offers his interest and he either leaves the room with someone else's interest, or he is left bereft.

Plus, he also likes pretty people and well, flirting is just his way of conveying his appreciation.

Ever since he's become a human, he has wholeheartedly dived into the human experience. He knows what he likes and he goes for it. Adventure gets his blood pumping, his heart going, his mind excited. It electrifies him.

Lance likes being cool, smooth, and suave. There's an allure to those types of effortless people and it's only natural that he wants to emulate them—to be alluring and create his own gravity to draw people in. And while, sure, he doesn't always succeed, he is still trying. The drive to be better is an entirely human desire and well, these days, Lance _is_ altogether too human.

While Lance is a jovial person, that doesn't mean he is just a shallow imitation of a human pantomiming joy. Being in space doesn't feel like the homecoming he ever imagined. Sure, he's not planet-bound and constrained to the stardust of a small area, but he did leave some things behind on Earth. And by some things, he means his human family—his family that took in a fading star and nursed the dying embers of his core into a roaring blaze.

Growing up human meant experiencing love. Poets and writers describe love in a multitude of ways. There are so many types of love out there and Lance feels pretty sure that he has thoroughly learned familial love. Love is feeling the sharp bite of tears when your favorite grandmother dies. That choking, closing sensation of your throat and that forced effort to just breathe in the absence of someone is a facet of love. Then there's the love that leaves you energized—spending time with that person recharges you. What is misery in the face of companionship? You take courage in the fact that you are not alone. Your problems cannot overwhelm you when you are with them. You have fun with them. You talk to each other and take solace in the fact that you exist and that you are being _acknowledged_. There are people to share your joys and sorrows with.

Lance loves his family, and he is starting to love his team.

Hunk, Pidge, Keith, Shiro, Allura and Coran have carved their places in his core.


	2. Chapter 2

"I called you brother," Alfor hisses. Betrayal renders his words sharp and aching. He shakes, he trembles with rage as the fury of the Red Paladin, of the Red Lion heats him up inside-out. Red whispers to him, goads him to clamp their teeth on Zarkon's throat and suffocate this traitorous pack-mate until he yields, until he surrenders, or perhaps, until he dies.

Zarkon stares back coolly, as if he has never committed atrocities or is not about to commit an atrocity. Even through the distance of a screen, Alfor can feel the magnetic pull of Zarkon's gaze.

It feels like an eternity before Zarkon deigns to reply. "And so did I. But surely if I," he smiles, a grotesque quirk to his mouth, "survived the loss of my brother long ago, then perhaps you can too." There is a strange fondness lining his words. It feels far too intimate, too inappropriate for their conversation.

"You are an only child, Zarkon," Alfor says flatly. It is all he can say without combusting, without burning up in a rage that hungers, that aches to consume.

A familiar hearty laugh resounds in Alfor's ears, reminiscent of long gone times, where they were brothers and stalwart defenders of each other and the universe. It feels like coming home, but Alfor knows that soon he will have no home. Home will soon be a foreign concept.

"Alfor," Zarkon intones gravely, "I am eternity. What can you, in your transient flesh and blood, know of eternity?"

You grandiose, power-hungry, quintessence-addled fool, Alfor thinks viciously.

* * *

It's been ten thousand years—ten thousand years of _living._ But Zarkon is mostly Galra; Honerva is entirely Altean; and these bodies were not built for eternity. This, Zarkon muses, is the true injustice of his existence (he had waited for so long to regain his former glory and yet he cannot help but feel like a shade, a wraith grasping desperately at tangibility).

Living feels wrong, so wrong that Zarkon cannot remember when living felt _right_.

There is a clawing hunger in them, a remnant of their time in the rift and their encounter with that creature, that made them Emperor and Druid. Zarkon, before he was Zarkon, had never experienced such hunger but he remembers the eons in which he was endless, massive and finds that the hunger of a mere ten thousand years is but a drop in an endless ocean. It does not control him, for all that it motivates him. Hunger is a natural part of everything mortal that lives, Zarkon has carefully learned.

But poor, weak Honerva could not survive the depths of this dark hunger. Honerva is dead; Haggar is alive. Yet Zarkon could never find it in himself to mourn this loss. His love for Honerva had cooled down from a heady, dizzying tornado into a flickering breeze upon regaining some semblance of eternity. He is fond of Haggar, inasmuch as he can be fond of anyone these days (these endless, unceasing days and it's funny the way he is so achingly aware of time).

* * *

"I have no interest in being empress," Honerva scowls. "I don't have the time for that. I'm doing actual useful research and making headway!" Zarkon is startled and amused by the implication that he, emperor of the Galra Empire, is useless. She brushes him off like a wayward insect and he cannot help but grow more infatuated with her blunt, passionate personality.

"Ah, yes, sorry, let me get back to my terribly plebeian job of ruling an empire." Honerva bristles under Zarkon's dry, indulgent tone. He gives her a helpless smile that she returns with the slightest quirk of her mouth, betraying her playful acerbity.

Ever since their first meeting (where he also met her tiny, fierce beast that he was never fearful of and no, not even that split second when he looked down and saw some slit-eyed creature unexpectedly gaze back), she has always left him feeling off-kilter. First he was so struck by her beauty and then her intelligence in that short initial meeting that he could not help but retreat, utterly flustered. Now, he is in awe of the depths of her soul, of her passion. There is a hunger in her that resonates within him.

Boundaries are nothing but guidelines for her. Her ambition, her hunger for knowledge energizes her into action, into diving headfirst in her research and barely ever resurfacing before jumping into the next hypothesis. There is a drive in her that entrances Zarkon. Her sense of purpose leaves Zarkon energized. He basks in her presence, in the same way that creature of hers cannot help but curl up in a patch of warm sunlight.

Honerva fans the embers of his core into a roaring blaze.

* * *

"I am sick, Zarkon… _we_ are sick." An arm wraps protectively around her torso. Desperation leaves her frantic, a far cry from her usual composure.

"Honerva," he exhales, unbidden and unwilling. Why must these flames flicker so? So fragile, these flesh and blood beings.

* * *

Zarkon can vaguely remember that he was happy upon learning of Honerva's pregnancy (they had thought they were infertile). They were both happy. Joy had lit them up inside out. Their stoic faces were split by grins as they made plans for their future (our little prince; our little princess) and discussed names (they compromised on Lotor after learning the baby's gender, a name with meaning in both Altean and Galran).

Remembering that he was happy is easy but Zarkon discovers that recovering that emotion is a difficult endeavor. There is a disconnect between then and now.

He looks at this rift-touched, star-touched infant in a silence that could be mistaken for reverence. There is a quiet, a disquiet in him. All he can think is, "This boy will be trouble." There is a potential in him that no mortal should have. Something in Lotor resonates within Zarkon and he does not know precisely _what_. Will my boy be a star, or will my boy be a black hole? Will he build my coffin and stuff me inside? Will he usurp me? Will he be _greater_ than me?

"You should not have been born," Zarkon whispers to this slumbering, white-haired infant. His hand engulfs the soft heat of a chubby lavender cheek. I could snap his…its neck right now, he thinks. This is a quiet thought as some remnant of him recalls Honerva's fierceness in the time before. And some primal part of him rebels against this thought. Emperor Zarkon attributes this to the instincts of this form (somewhere in his mind, there is a man, just a man, screaming in horror, screaming in grief at what has happened and what will happen).

* * *

When a star goes wrong or grows tired, their brethren throws them into the rift between worlds, realities, universes. They are the first defense against an incursion. It is their punishment and their reward because there cannot be eternity in a rift when oblivion is so close by (they slumber until the time comes to defend). There are starkillers in the in-between, all stars remember. They all remember the incursions of the Beginning.

And yet, Zarkon stays silent when Honerva reveals to Alfor the creature that has survived the passage through the rift. It is so small, Zarkon marvels. Too small to devour even a diminished star like himself. Perhaps that is why his brethren did not awaken.

There hasn't been an incursion for eons (there will always be curious civilizations and all things must come to an end), Zarkon knows and yet, clever, curious Honerva has lit a beacon, signaling here, I am here.

Make way for the star-killers.

Make way for the incursions of yore.

* * *

Zarkon may be Galra, flesh and blood, but he _remembers_ the distant heat and cold of his former state. The long stretch of eons that he endured by being an it, a sentience not moved by passion. He cannot recall experiencing emotions exactly as those of flesh and blood do. If he were to water down his previous existence, he would say he felt a distant sense of curiosity for the universe around him, an awareness. A distant sense of affection for his brother, with whom he frequently communed on a level, on an intimacy that could not be replicated by those who were not stars.

With his brother, he never felt the loneliness that creeps up on him in the silence of the night. Were he still a star, he could never have been able to conceive of this aching feeling called loneliness. To be a star is to exist for eternity and he can see how his brethren could go wrong, trapped in these tiny forms.

Zarkon is chained and would it be so terrible of him to wish that he were unchained? What could be the harm in that? Regaining his rightful power would not disrupt the universe but rather right a wrong. And look, darling Honerva has rediscovered the quintessence from the rift, from the layer between realities.

She and Alfor marvel over this endless energy source, as though it is something entirely separate from them. Zarkon wants to say, you stumble around the universe and you hope that you can light the world with candlelight. You're liable to end up with a guttering flame or a blazing wildfire.

* * *

Longing stitches Zarkon's mouth shut in the face of Honerva's rift creature. A part of him whispers, who cares that this is dangerous! It would be worth it to be _right_ , to finally slide into a form that doesn't feel so constricting, like a noose tightening incrementally on his neck until he doesn't realize he is dead, until he is finally flesh and blood (this body wants to snuff out his core). Who cares if it hastens the end for these mortals? And yet another part cries, no! This isn't worth it. It will end in flames until he is ash in the wind, drifting along in silence and loneliness. This is the part of Zarkon that knows of love—of a mother's love, of a father's love, of a brother-in-arms' love, of a lover's love, and so on and so forth as these relationships weave the tapestry of his new, foreign life.

* * *

Emperor Zelrok and Empress Ofyrid of the Galra Empire are infertile. It is a tragic fact for a couple so eager to experience life, and the creation thereof. How unfortunate, friends murmur with sympathy dripping viscous from their mouths. Zelrok and Ofyrid mourn the loss of this possibility of new life. They say to each other, it's alright. We can always adopt. The sentiment is an oft expressed one in the times thereafter. Adoption is a soothing balm on their stinging wound. It is a hastily applied bandage protecting their grief from their new and cruel reality.

Adoption soon strikes them like lightning, rapid and unexpected.

One day, heavy grey clouds roll in and shroud the sun from sight. There is a palpable weight to the air; a sharp scent permeates the air. Suddenly, there is a downpour of rain—a rapid, thudding pattern heralds its arrival. A jagged light streaks across the sky, illuminating the world entirely for a brief moment. In that moment, Ofyrid, who has been peering out the window into the garden for some time ("Oh, Zelrok, I could watch a thunderstorm for hours!"), spots a small, fluffy form ensconced in a flowering bush (my lightning-struck boy, she'll think of with fondness in the times that follow).

"A baby!" she gasps.

"A _what_?" Zelrok is befuddled, but you do not become emperor without learning when action is more suitable than deliberation. 

They name him Zarkon.


End file.
